


Full Tang

by MistressKat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Dark Sam Winchester, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Dean says yes doesn’t mean he wants it. And just because he might not want it doesn’t mean he’s unwilling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Tang

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pushkin666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/gifts).



> I was in the mood to write pornlets so pushkin666 gave me some prompts. This one was ‘Wincest + knives’ and turned out much longer than expected. Many thanks to vyperdd for beta-reading. 
> 
> Note on the title: A ‘tang’ is part of the blade that extends into the handle. It can be reduced in size and thickness (a hidden tang) or have the full width and thickness of the blade running through the handle. A full tang knife is much stronger by virtue of simply having more metal in the handle, particularly at the key pressure points.

The way Dean sees it, it’s going to happen one way or another, and probably sooner than later. He catches Sam looking at dad’s knives with interest that has very little to do with hunting, at least not the kind that’s their usual family business. Once or twice, when John’s out or sleeping, Sam takes the knives out of their sheaths and lays them out, like a treasure, and runs his fingers over the blades, from point to tip to the flat of the belly, caressing the metal with something akin to reverence except darker; less sacred and deeply profane.  
  
He never hides what he’s doing from Dean and never offers any explanation either. Not that Dean needs one.  
  
Once John starts training Sam on how to fight with a knife it becomes clear that his affinity is not just theoretical. It’s the first time hunter skills seem to come naturally to him, the first time he’s shown a real interest in dad’s teaching and for a while the strained relationship between the two of them eases.  
  
Only Dean sees the irony, sees it and chokes on it, swallows it down until his throat is sore and his belly is bursting with it, because there’s nothing he can say. Because if dad knew the real reason behind Sam’s willingness to learn how to use the blades he’d toss him out on his ass. Dean too probably for failing to do... something, anything, to change things  
  
At the back of his mind, behind the ever-present guilt of ‘not enough, not enough’, Dean wonders how he can be expected to untwist anyone when he’s nothing but knots and tangles himself. Was it any surprise really that Sam had turned sharp around the edges, honed as he was against Dean and John? The thought feels rebellious and tastes like freedom.  
  
When Sam turns seventeen Dean buys him a fifteen inch full tang Bowie knife. It’s heavy and fits Sam’s large hand like it was made for it. Dean says it’s for killing monsters, but deep down he knows it’s for feeding one.  
  
Sam knows it too. That night, after John has left to meet someone about a potential hunt and it’s just the two of them drowning in the thick air of another nameless motel room, Sam crowds him against the bathroom doorway and kisses him. He’s clumsy, but not uncertain, and Dean doesn’t even pretend to fight it, just slumps low, his mouth soft and pliant like a sacrifice already slashed open. The Bowie knife is clenched in Sam’s fist throughout, his grip so tight Dean can feel the muscles of his arm trembling, but he doesn’t make a move to use it.  
  
Not this time.  
  
Dean’s not stupid. It’s only a matter of time. And no matter how you look at it this is Dean’s responsibility. He may have failed at keeping Sam safe, the least he can do is try to keep everyone else safe from him.  
  
The next time Sam kisses him there are no knives, just August heat and bent up frustration after weeks of being cooped up in a cabin somewhere, waiting for John. Sam’s hands are empty except for Dean’s shirt, clutched desperately between his fingers like he expects Dean to run.  
  
Instead Dean pushes closer and whispers “Harder,” when Sam’s teeth nip at his bottom lip. Sam doesn’t get it at first, looking at him with that same focused frown on his face he gets when conjugating Latin or something equally geeky, and it’s only when Dean says “You can bite me, c’mon, _harder_ ,” his expression shifts into something entirely different, something dangerous.  
  
The next kiss draws blood. At the end of it they are both hard.  
  
After that things escalate fast.  
  
Dean starts sharpening his own knives where Sam can see and it doesn’t take long until Sam asks if Dean wants him to do it. He gives the knife over wordlessly, then sits and watches, the rhythmic _swish-swish_ of the whetstone almost calming.  
  
When Sam is done he hands Dean’s knife back to him blade first, his grip tight, knuckles like a row of broken pearls across the hilt. Their position – Sam standing, Dean still perched on the sofa – puts the knife at level with Dean’s face and he doesn’t hesitate, just leans forward, past the blade that whispers against his cheek like a cool breeze, and licks at Sam’s hand, pushing his tongue into the salty greases between his fingers.  
  
Sam hisses, a long, sinuous sound like a snake sliding through grass, and his other hand lands on Dean’s bent head, fisting in his hair and holding him in place.  
  
“Fuck,” Sam says and Dean thinks that’s only a matter of time too.  
  
After that there is no going back.  
  
They are alone more often than not these days, John leaving for longer and longer stretches of time, sending them out on hunts of their own while he disappears for weeks.  
  
Dean finds himself caring less and less. He suspects Sam has stopped doing that a while ago already.  
  
They circle each other like planets on crossing orbits, every touch deliberate, every look full of tension. At nights Dean lies in the narrow single bed unmoving, painfully hard but unwilling to do anything about it. He tells himself it’s because he’s clinging to some semblance of normality but suspects it’s because he’s waiting for permission.  
  
Sam starts leaving knives everywhere; under the sofa cushions, behind the toilet, inside his boots. Dad would probably see it as being prepared like a good hunter but Dean knows it has nothing to do with what they do and everything to do with what they shouldn’t.  
  
Sam doesn’t ask, not really, not in so many words but Dean thinks he could’ve said no anyway and had it listened to. Maybe. It’s not an issue in any case because that’s not an option. Or maybe it is, maybe Dean just prefers this one. He’s not sure which is worse.  
  
In the end it doesn’t matter because when Sam comes at him one night, the Bowie knife still in its sheath but there, clipped to his belt, Dean lets himself be pushed down onto the sofa, his throat already bared, hands finding Sam’s hips like they were made for it.  
  
“Dean.” Sam’s voice is rough and breathless, sliding over Dean’s heart like a serrated edge. “I want...”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says and thinks how it’s better this way, except he’s no longer sure better for whom.  
  
When Sam pulls the knife out Dean twitches but it’s only instinct and his instincts always bring him closer to Sam. His brother smiles and it’s oddly sweet, a little boy smile full of joy and teeth, as he cuts through Dean’s shirt, the fabric ripping apart like tissue paper.  
  
The sweat on Dean’s chest makes the blade slip and slide but Sam’s grip is steady, his other hand cupped around Dean’s face almost gently as he draws the knife around and around, white pressure marks and pink scratches mapping the trail. When he finally breaks skin – a small vertical cut right in the middle of Dean’s sternum – it feels nothing so much like release, bright and pure like no Winchester has ever been. The blood wells up and they both gasp, Dean’s hips straining up against the solid heat of Sam’s body, all angles and sharp edges in so many ways.  
  
“You want this,” Sam breathes, something like gratitude in his voice, and Dean thinks ‘no’ and says “Yes,” and neither of them is the truth because it just isn’t that black and white any more.  
  
Nothing is.  
  
Sam leans down to kiss him, eager and filthy, his hand pushing under Dean’s waistband and wrapping around his cock. Next to them the knife lies abandoned on the sofa, and Dean, fucking himself in the tight circle of his brother’s fingers, honey bitter pleas sticking on his tongue, doesn’t know if he’s relieved.  
  
Or disappointed.


End file.
